


Measure Of A Man

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5 Times, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya knows, despite claiming otherwise, that Napoleon Solo is not a terrible spy. The three of them make a good team: Gaby is smart, Solo is charming and Illya is strong. </p><p>Strong, but as it turns out, not the strongest of them.</p><p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=1109120)  
>   
> 
> The title is taken from the song "Measure Of A Man" by Young Rebel Set.

Illya knew that he shouldn’t have come. He could have unpacked his things and played a few rounds chess instead of sitting in this greasy pub with his partners. They have a whole week off for settling into their rooms at the new U.N.C.L.E. headquarter in London, so it’s not like they need him to go out and drink. He swears, the next time Gaby asks him to come along, he’ll just politely refuse and stay in his room. And he won’t let himself be talked into drinking again and definitely not into drinking this much. This is the last time. Really.

Illya tightens his hold on his empty glass as he glares across the table.

“What would you know about it, Cowboy?”

Solo just leans a little further towards him in his fake-seductive manner and smirks. “Oh, I could just show you.” He winks at Illya, which makes him even more furious. He doesn’t even remember why they started fighting. It’s like Gaby’s wardrobe in Rome all over again. It was something mundane, which Illya usually doesn’t care much about, but Solo managed to rile him up.

With an indifferent glance Gaby raises her glass and takes a slow sip. “You know, you two could just settle it like gentlemen in a contest.” She swirls the clear liquid in her glass. Her cheeks are a little flushed as she empties it once again and raises her hand to order a refill. “I don’t know, just arm wrestle or see who can piss further. I really don’t care.”

Solo doesn’t even stop grinning and holds out his arm. “An excellent idea, Miss Teller.” He flexes his fingers and looks at Illya expectantly. He can’t be serious. The waitress brings Gaby’s new drink to their table and gives them a curious look when she sets it down. To Illya’s surprise Solo doesn’t even glance in her direction, his hand still held out.

“So? I take it you admit that I am right by giving up?”

Illya crosses his arms in front of his chest looks at Gaby and Solo in turn, then snorts. “Childish.” He grabs Solo’s hand. It feels hot and solid against Illya’s fingers, smoother, less callused. The hand of a thief, no doubt.

Gaby blinks once before looking rather pleased. She leans a little forward with a grin. “Thank you. I count to three.”

While Gaby counts Illya wonders again, why he even puts up with all of this. He looks into Solo’s eyes and braces himself. It’s easy to recognize the glimmer that speaks of Solo’s limitless poise. This will teach the American a lesson when Illya forces him to yield. Gaby gives the signal and he starts to push.

Nothing happens.

Illya can’t hold back his frown as he puts more strength into it. Solo’s arm doesn’t move an inch. He looks up from their hands and sees Solo smirk again. “Are you even trying, Peril?”

Illya grits his teeth. His arm starts to shake from the exertion, but Solo’s only reaction is a slight tightening of his hold on Illya’s hand. It’s impossible.

Solo’s grin stays on his face as he starts to push back. Illya can’t do anything but watch helplessly as his arm gets forced against the tabletop. It only takes seconds until it’s over. Illya blinks and looks at his hand pinned by Solo’s. His eyes travel up the other man’s arm until he looks into Solo’s eyes again. Solo is still smirking. This isn’t right.

“You cheated.”

His partner huffs out a laugh. “Then tell me how I did it.”

“You…”

…How _did_ he do it? Illya closes his mouth again. What did he miss? Solo wouldn’t have said that, if the match was fair, would he?

Solo has still a firm grip on his hand as he tilts his head to the side. “So?”

Damn him. Damn him and Gaby for suggesting it. Abruptly Illya yanks his hand away and stands up. Ignoring the sniggers from his partners he puts on his jacket and lays down enough money to cover his and Gaby’s drinks. His partners stay seated and look up at him, Gaby barely biting back alcohol-induced laughter and Solo subtly widening his eyes in a mockery of surprise and innocence. Illya tries hard not to react to their teasing, but they already know him too well. He swallows once and fights down the heat rising to his face.

“I’m still right.”

He doesn’t wait for his partners to respond before turning around and leaving the bar.

The walk to the headquarter is rather short, but the cold December air helps to clear up his head. It is not that late, but the streets are empty. It takes barely fifteen minutes to reach the inconspicuous apartment building. Illya has to admit, that U.N.C.L.E. did a pretty decent job with it. After passing the ordinary looking hall with their mailboxes he enters the living quarters by inserting a hidden code. Behind that door there is no trace of the exterior of the building left. The hallways are sleek and modern, but spacious. Illya knows that U.N.C.L.E. bought five adjoining buildings, which they hollowed out and turned into different facilities connected with new corridors. He saw plans and the security setup and is rather satisfied with it. They are one of the first agents to move in, so he doesn’t meet anyone. Waverly assigned the first floor of the living quarters to them consisting of two bathrooms, one large kitchen and a bedroom for each of them. Illya claimed the first room, Solo settled next to him and Gaby occupies the one on Solo’s other side. He unlocks his door, noting that he should probably add a deadbolt or two to keep Solo out.

His room is still mostly empty besides the two bags he dropped in the middle of it. A large bed in the far corner and a dresser are the only furniture so far. Waverly gave each of them a check to buy the rest ’as they please’. The amount of money they received seemed ridiculous, but there is a lot of space to be filled. Illya considers just to leave the room bare so he gets spared from the shopping trip his partners most likely have already planned out. With a sigh he starts to unpack.

Gaby and Solo haven’t returned by the time he turns off the lights. He would have heard them for sure in their state. The new bed is comfortable enough, but somehow sleep evades him. With a frown he curls to his side and pulls up the blanket to his chin as the evening replays inside his head again and again. There must be a trick to it. He’s stronger than Solo. He just has to find out how he did it. He closes his eyes. His fingers still tingle with the phantom sensation of Solo’s grasp when he finally drifts off.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright, team up in pairs and let’s see how you do.”

Illya crosses his arms in front of his chest and stays where he is, as the other agents jump in motion. On some level he understands that U.N.C.L.E. wants to access their new agent’s abilities on their own before sending them off on missions. Still that he has to participate himself is somewhat annoying, especially because he already works for Waverly. 

He does a quick headcount. There are six other men with him in the gym. If he’s lucky and leans back a little, he might get spared. It’s not even unlikely that nobody will approach him judging by the side-glances he gets. Although U.N.C.L.E. did try to recruit agents from all over the globe, he is still the only one from the KGB. He knows that the western agents are still wary of him and he has no intention to work against it yet. 

As predicted, after a few minutes Illya is the one left without a partner. Now he only has to take off before Solo arrives, which shouldn’t be too hard. The American makes a sport out of skipping introductions and assessments since they started a few days ago. He suppresses a smirk as he approaches the instructor. The man looks up from his clipboard and frowns. “Where is your practice partner?” Illya looks pointedly around. “There is no one left.”

The frown of the man deepens. “There should be.”

It that moment the door to his right opens. Illya barely suppresses a sigh. There goes the opportunity. He turns his head to see Solo enter the gym, clad in the same standard issued workout clothes everyone is wearing. The remark about punctuality dies on his lips. It’s probably the first time Illya sees him wearing a simple t-shirt and sweat pants instead of suits or his gear. He looks… bulky. The white shirts strains to stretch over his chest and shoulders, the hem of the short sleeves slid up a bit to make more room for the width of his biceps. Illya has to admit, he is a little surprised. He knows that Solo is in top condition, but he didn’t expect that amount of muscle under all those three piece suits. 

Solo makes his way over to them wearing one of the smiles that seem apologetic if one doesn’t know him. “I’m a little late, sorry.”

The instructor glances rather unimpressed at him and focuses on his clipboard again. “Napoleon Solo I presume?”

Illya barely resists to roll his eyes. Leave it to the American to already have gained a reputation for unprofessionalism.

“Yes.”

“Don’t be late again. I think you know your practice partner.”

With that the man leaves them to join the other supervisors gathered around a small table over even more clipboards. 

Solo turns to face Illya. “What did I miss?”

Illya nods in direction of the free space in the middle of the room where the other agents are already waiting for them. There are flat, square mattresses on the ground, not thick enough to let them sink in, but a small buffer between them and the floor. “Not much. Basic hand-to-hand combat, the usual play nice. No hard hits or anything that could injure your opponent.”

Solo raises his eyebrows. “So we fight without actually doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds pointless.” 

“Tell that your government.” 

Surprisingly that earns him a laughter, the honest kind, not the faked ones that Solo thinks are charming. The Cowboy pats Illya’s shoulder and makes his way to the free mattress. With a small smile of his own Illya follows him. They takes opposite sides and wait for the supervisors to give them a signal to start. Illya watches his partner stretch a bit and starts to lay out his tactics while he waits. He remembers their encounter before teaming up well. He knows how Solo fights, but never had the chance to properly test it out. Maybe this won’t be as pointless as they think. 

One of the supervisors stands up from his seat. “Gentlemen, please begin with the bell.”

Illya widens his stance slightly and flexes his fingers. It would probably be wiser to let Solo come to him and react to his advances, but Illya wants to do this on his own terms, leading the course of action himself. One good grip is all he’s going to need to win this.

Solo mirrors Illya’s posture on the other side of the mattress, his wide shoulders set in a firm line, the white shirt doing nothing to conceal the tensing of his body. It’s a disadvantage, but Illya doesn’t complain. 

It’s strange really. Wearing such a tight shirt should look awful, but somehow it doesn’t. It fact, it looks rather nice on him. It enhances the hard lines of the body beneath it, making Solo look less like the charmer he wants other people to see and more like the weapon he is. 

The bell ringing snaps him out of his thoughts. 

He takes off with full speed. Solo only manages to get his arms up before Illya tackles him to the ground. 

They are both struggling for the upper hand immediately. Their punches are pulled, but that doesn’t mean they’re pleasant. Illya stays on top most of the time, but takes more hits. They are at an impasse, Illya not able to subdue Solo completely without risking to injure his partner, but Solo not able to throw him off either.

Just as Illya considers changing tactics, Solo jams his elbow in Illya’s ribs only to create a perfect opening in his own defense. Illya manages to sneak an arm around the American’s neck, while getting up to his knees over him. With a great pull he hauls Solo’s torso up with him, one of his arms trapped between their bodies, the other one secured within the choke hold. Solo struggles against him, but Illya doesn’t relent. He gets a few kicks against his legs, but nothing serious. It’s not too different from the technique he used in Berlin, only now they are both kneeling up. If this was serious, he could easily squeeze the other man’s windpipe shut. 

Suddenly Solo yanks violently against Illya’s hold with more power than he expected. The second in which Illya has to adjust his grip is enough for Solo to break out of it. Before he has the chance to react, Solo hooks a leg under his and flips them around.

Illya’s back hits the mattress hard. Solo is on him instantly, one leg on his hip, the other tangled with Illya’s to prevent him from kicking out. Illya aims a punch at his face, but the American grabs his wrist and stops it before his fist connects. With a growl he tries to draw his arm back again. Instead of stopping him, Solo goes with the motion, shoves Illya’s arm forward and pins it down. Not even a moment later his other wrist is grabbed and pressed against the ground as well. Illya tries to yank his arms out of Solo’s grasp, but it just makes his partner tighten his grip further.

He blinks up to Solo’s face hovering over him. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, the muscles of his jaw are strung up. He is so close, that Illya can make out the beginning of the brown spot in his partner’s left eye, usually hidden in the shadow of his lashes. They are both breathing heavily. He tilts his head a little to the side and lets his eyes wander up and down Illya’s pinned arms and chest. 

He shouldn’t do that. 

Illya tries to draw back, but he can’t. He twitches fruitlessly under Solo’s gaze. The American shifts the leg, which is tangled with Illya’s, a little further up only to make him feel it. His eyes return to Illya’s face. The corners of his mouth curl up in a smirk. “I have to admit, you look rather lovely on your back, Peril, although a little cooperation next time wouldn’t hurt.” 

Illya has the time to blink once, until red hot anger spreads through his body. If his fists weren’t already clenched, his hands would probably shake with it. With all his strength he pushes against Solo’s hold. He can see the American’s eyes widening slightly. He manages to pull one of his legs free and rams his knee into the thigh trapping his other leg. Solo gasps, but doesn’t loosen his hold. Fine. If Solo won’t let go, he’ll just lift him off.

Slowly his arms leave the ground again, forcing Solo’s hands up with him. It’s harder than it has any right to be, but he gradually pushes upward, his anger fueling him to go further. 

Illya’s torso is mostly off the ground already, when Solo suddenly lets go. Without the resistance Illya snaps forward. He realizes his mistake the second it’s too late. Solo has already twisted around to get behind him. In one fluid motion the American pushes him down again face first and twists one of his arms behind his back. Illya feels a knee pressing down on his lower back that flattens out his posture with unrelenting force. With his free hand Illya reaches behind himself to do just _anything_ , which only results in Solo twisting his arm further upward. He cries out in frustration and pain and starts to thrash against the hold blindly. 

Instantly the weight lifts off him. He scrambles to turn around into a sitting position. The other agents stopped their session and more or less discretely stare in their direction. There is little sound other than Illya’s elaborate breaths. His eyes fall down to his hands, which are still shaking slightly. He balls them into fits again to hide it. 

“Peril?”

Illya’s head snaps to Solo, who is already standing upright next to him. His partner looks at him with concern. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” He extends a hand to help him up. Illya can hear a silent chuckle from one of the other agents. He grits his teeth. “I’m fine.” Ignoring his partner’s outstretched hand he gets up and storms out of the gym. He hears one of the supervisors call after him, but his words get cut off by the door slamming shut behind him. 

It takes nothing more than a few glares to make everyone avert their eyes on the way to his room. He’s still fuming by the time he rips open his door. He fell for everything, every distraction, every trick. He was led on and manhandled like a junior agent. By Solo of all people, the same man he’s easily thrown through the public restroom in West Berlin just a few months back. Pathetic. With a curse he grabs a fresh towel and leaves his room again. 

The bathroom across the hall is just as spacious as their rooms, but Illya can’t appreciate it now, not even the shower head hanging high enough for him to stand comfortably under it. He turns on the water and shrugs out of his clothes. The water is scalding hot when he steps into the shower, but he doesn’t care about the burn. He scrubs furiously over his skin and washes off the sweat. He needs to train more. He’s gotten too comfortable over the last weeks. He won’t fall behind, especially not behind Solo. 

He shuts off the water, when it turns cold, the only indication for how long he stood under the spray. Only then he notices that he forgot to bring a change of clothes. He rubs his hair fairly dry and towels off the rest of him before draping the cloth around his hips. The corridor is empty when he opens the door. His room isn’t.

Illya freezes in his own doorway, thinking for a second that he got the wrong room. Gaby sits at the foot of his bed, like she has every right to be here. She wears one of the overalls Waverly got her for tinkering at the workshop down in the basement. His anger flees into the back of his mind instantly. 

“What are you doing here?”

Gaby smiles up to him after not so subtly giving him a once over. “Enjoying the view at the moment.”

Illya forces himself to shut the door silently and walk over to the dresser, her eyes still following him through the room. He was never really self-conscious, but he is now. He takes out underwear and awkwardly shimmies into it before removing the towel. “Why did you come then?”

“You tell me.”

Illya snorts and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. “Nothing to tell.” 

He puts them on and turns around to find Gaby standing just inches behind him. He refuses to flinch in surprise. Her training really pays off. 

She fixes him an unimpressed stare and reaches for his hand. Illya lets her take it and lift it up to examine it. There are red blotches forming around his wrists where Solo’s fingers dug in. Gaby frowns at them. “You two need to be more careful. If you go on like that, one of you could get hurt.”

Illya withdraws his hand again. Solo’s words ring through his head. _Did I hurt you?_

“I’m not weak.”

Now Gaby’s frown is directed at his face. “I didn’t say that.” 

Illya turns around to fish for some more clothes. With a pair of socks and a simple shirt he steps around Gaby. He can still feel her eyes on him as he sits down on his bed to put on the socks. Bending down he sees her cross the room in his peripheral vision. She stops only when the tips of her shoes appear in front of him. 

“You are ridiculous sometimes.”

Illya raises his head ready to argue only to be stopped by the gentle hand on his cheek. Gaby smiles down at him, her thumb running along his cheekbone. Her large brown eyes sparkle with amusement and affection. There’s a dark smudge just above her left eyebrow, probably motor oil, her hair is strung back in a messy ponytail. She looks careless and as beautiful as ever. 

Gaby tilts her head slightly. “Did it ever occur to you, that you need to be careful, because both of you are unreasonably strong?”

Illya becomes aware of how close she is. He can smell the mix of garage, metal and underneath the fruity fragrance of her hair, all blending together and resulting in something entirely Gaby. He draws a deep breath, trying to take in as much of it as possible.

If Gaby noticed, and she probably did, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead her smile widens a little. “I do like my men strong. I won our little wrestling-match, but you threw a motorcycle. Do you think that’s enough?”

He really doesn’t know how anyone could ever be good enough for Gaby, because she deserves it all, but he desperately hopes that he is. 

He stares into her eyes, unable to move away. Gaby raises his chin a bit further as she oh so slowly leans down. His heartbeat picks up. He can feel her breath on his skin as he carefully reaches up to cup her face. His fingers are just shy of trembling again, but not because of his temper. His eyes flutter shut.

The sudden knock on the door makes them both jump. Illya doesn’t know if he should be angry or just cry as Gaby steps back. Again. He lost count how many times it happened by now. But the moment is lost, like so many before. 

Disgruntled he calls out to the interrupter to come in. It’s one of the new secretaries, from Italy Illya thinks. She looks in turn at Gaby and Illya, who is still sitting shirtless on his bed, her eyebrows slightly raised. Fortunately for her she is clever enough not to say anything. 

“Mr. Waverly wants to see you. Your partner, Mr. Solo is already waiting for you.”

Gaby rubs her sleeve over her forehead and manages to spread the oil further over her face. “Thank you, we’ll come.”

With a quick nod the woman leaves again.

Gaby sighs and turns back to Illya. The smile on her lips looks apologetic, or at least he thinks so.

“I’ll take a minute to wash up. See you there.”

Illya tries to smile a little and nods. He waits for her to leave the room before letting himself fall back on the bed. For a minute he just stares at the ceiling and wonders what he did to deserve this.


	3. Chapter 3

They should have known. It all sounded too easy, too safe when Waverly handed them the folders in his office. Illya would like to blame the Brit for the situation, but he can’t. This was supposed to be a simple tour for searching clues in a deserted facility. They found out the hard way, that it only looked deserted, because everything was moved underground. They simply haven't been careful enough and relied too much on their intel. At least the men currently holding them turned out not as competent as they first appeared to be. 

They have been here for a couple of hours, Illya thinks. There are two men with them in what looks like an old kitchen, one of them leaning next to the door, the other one trying to interrogate him with little success. Illya’s hands are cuffed to an old pipe coming out of the walls so high up, that he’s forced to stand with his arms extended over his head. Solo kneels a few feet next to him, his hands cuffed to a rusty radiator behind his back. They already had a few rounds with his partner, but other than a cut above his brow and a slightly swollen jaw, they didn’t do much. It was easy to redirect their efforts towards Illya. A few well aimed words spoken in his accent was enough to make them switch places. Their first mistake, but not their worst one. Illya’s hostility may be more obvious, but that doesn’t make Solo less dangerous. Especially when they can’t see what he does with his hands.

The next punch is directly aimed at his teeth. His lip splits under the force. He takes a second to gather a bit of blood in his mouth and spit it in the man’s face. It earns him a couple more punches, but more time as well. With a curse the man takes a step back. “Russian scum.” 

Illya yanks at the pipe above him with all his strength. The pipe creaks and bends down a few inches, but holds. Never the less, the man jumps at that. Illya shows them his bloodstained teeth in a feral grin. It’s a bit over the top, but it does its job. Both of their captors focus on him and miss the way his partner’s shoulders twitch occasionally to work the lock pick out of the seam of his jacket. 

Their worst mistake was to search them only for weapons. 

With a curse the man steps closer again and grabs Illya’s hair to force his head down to his level. 

“Who sent you?”

Illya stays silent and just glares at him. The knee to his stomach is no surprise, but it hurts. He grits his teeth and refuses to make a sound. This is nothing. He knows from experience that he can take way more. Still he wishes Solo would hurry. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other man pushing himself off the wall. Slowly he walks over to them with the certain kind of confidence that promises nothing good.

“Let’s cut this short.”

He draws his gun from the holster on his hip and aims it at Illya’s head. Illya forces himself to still. The man won’t kill him. Not like that, he’s sure. They stare at each other for a long moment, before the man flicks off the safety. 

“Who are you working for?”

Illya stares on with a clenched jaw. He refuses to let his eyes dart over to his partner as he hears the telltale clicking of the lock pick.

The man snorts once, lowers his weapon and sends a bullet in Illya’s leg.

He cries out before he manages to clamp his mouth shut. White hot pain spreads through his body. His knees buckle, but the pipe above him holds. The cuffs biting into his wrists and his shoulders aching under his weight pale in comparison to the fire radiating from his leg. His eyes stay firmly shut as he tries to breathe through it. 

He hears the man in front of him chuckle. “More talkative now?”

Illya needs a few seconds to open his eyes. His vision is blurry with pain, but he sees the man raising his gun again. “Seems you need a little more persuasion.”

Slowly he aims his gun at Illya’s other leg. Illya closes his eyes and braces for another bullet. 

The shot rings in his ears, but he can’t feel anything. Instead there is the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. His eyes fly open just in time to see Solo to raise the gun to the remaining man, who stares at the body on the ground in surprise. Solo doesn’t hesitate even for a second before pulling the trigger again. The shot is well aimed and the bullet buries itself in the man’s chest. 

Solo kicks the dead man at his feet back as he rushes over to Illya. Without hesitation he steps in close and throws an arm around Illya’s torso. He tucks the gun away and gets his lock pick out again. Illya tries to take more of his own weight as Solo reaches up to break him out of the cuffs, but every time he all but twitches with his injured leg a bright spark of agony shoots through his body. 

As the cuffs slip off his wrists all he can do is clutch at his partner’s shoulders while he’s lowered to the ground. He can’t hold back a pained moan as the movement jostles his leg. 

Only when he’s settled against the wall behind him, Solo draws back. For once he looks completely serious, as he crouches in front of him. He lays his hand on Illya’s cheek and makes turn his head towards him. His fingers feel hot against his skin. “Hold on, Peril.” He glances down at Illya’s leg, before he gets up to pull a knife from the belt of one of the now dead men and returns to his side. “I need to take a look at that.” He pauses. “This won’t feel pleasant.”

Illya nods with gritted teeth. 

Solo looks at him for a moment, then he goes to work. Illya barely holds in a scream as Solo straightens his injured leg. Carefully Solo cuts away the fabric to reveal the wound. Illya can’t really see it without sitting further up, but the blank look on Solo’s face is enough to tell it’s as bad as it feels like. 

The bullet hit him a few inches below his knee, where he can feel blood running down the sides of his leg. He knows that his shin is shattered. It has to be with a shot fired at that distance. The bullet itself is probably still lodged between the pieces. 

Solo uses the knife to cut off his own sleeve and tears it into a few stripes of fabric. With the remains of what he cut away, Solo wipes away most of the blood and lays a relatively fresh piece on top of the wound. Illya hisses as his partner slowly lifts his leg to put on the makeshift bandage, the new angle putting a more pressure on it. 

“Sorry.”

He moves swiftly and precisely as he wraps up the wound. Illya’s never been more grateful for Solo’s steady hands. He barely needs a minute before he tucks in the ends. 

Illya lets his head drop back against the wall behind him and watches Solo get up with heavy-lidded eyes. The cowboy steps over the bodies and carefully opens the door. After a short peek outside, he pushes the door open wide. 

“They are still not guarding the upper levels it seems.” 

Illya snorts halfheartedly. “Amateurs.” What that means for themselves, since they still managed to get a hold of them, he pointedly ignores. 

He only notices that he closed his eyes again, when he blinks them open at Solo’s hand landing on his shoulder. “We need to get moving.” 

With a small grimace Illya tries to get his good leg under him. The wound stings with every move, but he has no choice. They need to get out of the facility or at least find a better hiding place before anyone comes to check in on them. He pushes his back off the wall behind and falters for a moment, before two strong arms grab him under his armpits and haul him up. By the time he caught himself, Solo has already slipped under his arm and has a firm grip on his hip. Illya mutters a thank you and carefully leans on his partner. It’s not that he’s not grateful for the help, but he’d rather not need it. Although he knows, that this is not an option anymore.

He tries to take one step and nearly falls back to the floor if it was not for Solo holding him up. He can feel his partner’s eyes on him as he tries to catch his breath. “Take it easy Peril.”

With a curse Illya leans more heavily on Solo, the other man taking his weight without a comment. His blood rushes down and he feels his pulse resounding in his leg as the pain intensifies once more. He doesn’t even try to put any weight on it as they slowly move out the door.

The corridor is still empty, but it won’t stay that way. Illya’s breath comes in short after just a few steps. It sounds oddly loud in the empty corridor. He starts to sweat, his strength draining rapidly with every move. A glance down tells him that he’s already bled through the fabric wrapped around the wound. For a second he gets dizzy. Black spots appear before his eyes that he can’t blink away. 

“Stop.”

“We can’t.”

Illya has to swallow against the sudden nausea rising in his throat. “Cowboy, stop.” It comes out more pleading than he wanted to, but he doesn’t have it in him to care right now. He sags forward, his body refusing to stay upright. Instead of meeting the hard floor, another arm closes around his torso. In a swift turn Solo crowds him against the wall next to them, the cold concrete against Illya’s back in stark contrast to the heat of Solo’s chest. Illya takes a deep breath and tries not to vomit. The faint smell of Solo’s cologne fills his nose. He doesn’t know why, but it helps. 

They are running out of time. They are too slow. _He_ is too slow. Illya pushes a little back, so he can look properly at his partner. 

“You need to go.”

“Ready, when you are.”

Illya shakes his head resolutely. “ _You_ need to go. I stay. Buy more time.” 

Solo looks like he’s getting ready to argue, but Illya beats him to it. 

“I can’t go on. You get out, wait for back-up. They won’t kill me.” At least he hopes so.

His partner looks at him, but Illya can see, that he’s not really listening. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he would get angry. Why does he always have to be so difficult?

“I can’t make it out in time. I can’t walk.”

Solo blinks down at him for a second, before nodding to himself. 

“You don’t have to.”

Before Illya can retort anything, Solo steps away and crouches down, Illya’s wrists suddenly in the American’s hands. Surprised Illya loses his balance and falls forward with the motion. His world tilts to the side as Solo drapes him over his shoulder. He winds an arm through his legs and grabs his other arm. It happens so fast, that Illya doesn’t understand what’s going on, until his feet leave the ground. Solo rises easily, lifting Illya as if he weighs nothing. He opens his mouth, but his words fail him in every language he knows.

His partner turns his head and meets Illya’s wide eyes. 

“Everything alright?”

Unable to think of an actual answer, Illya nods. 

Solo smirks. “Good. Try not to puke on my shoulder.”

Illya lets out a quite embarrassing squeak, as Solo jumps up a little to settle him more comfortably over his shoulders.

Instinctively he tries to hold on tighter onto his partner when he starts to jog to the exit of the building. He slightly bounces up and down with Solo’s steps, but he doesn’t slip off. His leg sends spikes of pain up into his torso with every tug on it, but it doesn’t help to get his thoughts in order.

Solo is carrying him. Solo is carrying him while _jogging_. 

“You can’t do this.”

Solo’s pace doesn’t even slow. “I obviously can, Peril.”

Illya can’t come up with anything else after that. 

It doesn’t take too long to reach the door where they broke in earlier. Solo pushes it open and steps out. It is already almost dark again. They’ve been longer in there than he thought they were. 

The facility is hidden behind a small forest that separates it from the town next to it. They need to make to their small safe house located in an even smaller alley, before their eventual pursuer catch up to them. They still won’t make it. Illya starts to lose his grip, as the pain in his legs gradually gets worse. Maybe it doesn’t get worse, but Illya gets weaker, he can’t tell. The small tension still supporting his weight on his partner’s shoulders is long gone. He has to feel even heavier than when they took off. He can hear his partner’s breath come out in small huffs, but his hold on Illya is still secure. 

They are out in the open between the facility and the tree line, when they hear the alarm go off. So they’ve been spotted. 

“Let me down.” 

His voice sounds odd in his own ears. Somewhat slurred. 

“Shut up.”

Illya gets ready to argue or at least tries, when a car pulls out of a small dirt road hidden between the trees and comes to stop in front of them. Solo halts abruptly, which sends a jolt of agony through Illya. Despite his efforts a small sound of pain escapes his lips. He feels Solo squeeze his arm in sympathy, as he takes out the gun he stole with his other hand.

One of the doors flies open, barely after the wheels stopped turning. 

The voice shouting their names is painfully familiar. 

“Napoleon! Illya!”

He hears his partner shout something back, but his words are muffled. Absently he wonders when Gaby started to call the Cowboy by his first name, when the black spots reappear in his vision and spread further. It sounds not bad.


	4. Chapter 4

There is a soft breeze running over his exposed skin. Nothing more than a whisper of air, a fleeting touch. It feels nice on his face. A quiet clicking sound, then there is nothing. Illya frowns. He needs a few attempts to blink his eyes open, then a few more to clear his vision. Waverly is standing right next to him, his mouth curled up in that fond smile, which manages to confuse Illya even on his best days. 

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, good to have you back.”

Illya isn’t sure what to answer to that and his throat is painfully dry, so he just waits for the Brit to continue. Waverly pulls out a chair to sit next to him. It gives Illya a little more time to take in his surroundings. The room he’s in is rather empty. The only furniture is the bed he occupies and two scattered chairs. The walls are painted in a pale blue and there are small pictures of flowers lining them. On his left side there’s a window facing the streets. He recognizes the buildings easily, since he passed them almost every day for a month on his way home. The only thing that betrays his location as the medical section of U.N.C.L.E. is needle with the bag of clear fluid hooked up to the crook of his arm.

With a content sigh Waverly sits down and crosses his legs.

“You had us a little worried there with all that blood and splintered bones. The doctors say that you have chances for a full recovery with a little time though.”

Illya recognizes the choice he’s given. Deal with this now or later. Illya’s first attempt to speak ends up as a hoarse whisper, then he clears his throat. “What means little time?”

“Four to six months, maybe longer.”

Illya blinks slowly, trying to process the words. He knows how long it takes for bones to heal, longer depending on the extent of the destruction. He knows the likelihood of remaining damage. The whole concept of recovery is not unfamiliar, but having to apply it to himself is different. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of getting injured like that never crossed his mind. It happened to others, not to him. His eyes wander down to his leg covered with the blanket involuntary, his hands are clenching the fabric of the blanket spread over him.

“Was it reported back?”

“I already made contact with your Russian handler, if that’s what you mean.”

Waverly takes his glasses off to polish them with the handkerchief stuffed in his breast pocket. Silence stretches between them. 

“I sent them the reports of the surgery and everything to let their own physicians have a look at this.”

“What did he say?”

Waverly’s smile falls slightly. “U.N.C.L.E. will handle your recovery and further employment.”

He doesn’t even have to say anything more than that. Illya knows what it means. The KGB abandons him, because they think he won’t make it, because they think him useless, weak. He swallows, unable to say anything anymore. 

Waverly studies his face for a few seconds, then he gets up.

“Ms. Teller and Mr. Solo are quite eager to see you, now that you’re awake. They will be here shortly.”

He puts the chair back where he found it and heads for the door. The door handle already in hand, he pauses. “Please feel free to let me know, if you need anything. We take care of our own.”

Illya gives him a small nod and turns his head to look out of the window. 

The second he hears the door click shut after Waverly he sits up. The swift motion leaves him dizzy, but he blinks it away, while he pulls back the blanket draped over him. He’s in one of the loose shirts and shorts, which he got himself in Istanbul, when the nights had been too hot to sleep in anything different. 

The cast covers his lower leg and ankle, leaving him mostly immobile. He’s never been really tan, but the stark white makes his skin look sickly pale. He extends his hand and brushes over the rim. The texture is somewhat rough on his fingers. He takes his hand back and clutches it into a fist. 

One simple mission, one bullet and he’s broken. Possibly, or most likely, beyond repair. This shouldn’t have happened. 

His partners are on their way to him, Waverly said. The thought of their pitying glances alone makes him sick. He can’t do this. 

His fingers find the needle in the crook of his arm and draw it out. He swings his good leg out of the bed and maneuvers the other one out after it. Carefully, but determined, he pushes up using the pole, where the bag of his infusion is still hanging from. He can’t put any weight on the cast, so he takes the pole as a makeshift crutch with him. 

He’s already tired by the time he reaches the door, but he pushes on. 

The corridor is almost empty. He can see a nurse through the large window into their office, but her back is currently turned to him. He hurries along. The living quarters are in the building right next to him. With a little luck he might make it to his room and get his door locked before he’s spotted. 

A dull ache in his leg starts up again. The painkillers, which were probably in the infusion, start to wear off. He feels sweat gathering on his forehead, his blood rushing loudly through his veins. He barely makes it down the corridor before his leg threatens to give out. With little choice he slips through the next door. 

The room is unoccupied and unfurnished, probably waiting to be turned into another medical ward when needed. He closes the door silently behind him and lowers himself to the ground next to it. If it was only an ache in his leg before, it is pain again now. He lets his head fall back against the cool wall behind him and closes his eyes. He just needs a small break. Except that the minutes pass by and his strength doesn’t return to him, only more pain. 

He doesn’t know how long he has sat there, when the door opens next to him. Illya opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn his head to see. The door stays ajar for a little while, then they enter. 

Solo steps around him while Gaby closes the door. Without a word they lower themselves down on either side of him, both warm and solid against him. They stay silent and Illya is glad for that. He closes his eyes again. He feels a small hand lowering on his. He lets Gaby move it over into her lap and intertwine their fingers.

Illya has to swallow against the lump in his throat, before he can speak. He tries to formulate what he wants to say in his head, that he’s working for U.N.C.L.E. now, that they don’t have to worry about him getting called back anymore, which is a good thing, isn’t it? Still that’s not what comes out of his mouth.

“KGB thinks my leg won’t heal. They cut me loose.”

Because he’s a failure, too damaged to be bothered with.

Gaby’s fingers twitch slightly against his, which is their only reaction. It’s alright though. He doesn’t want to hear, that he should look at it positively. If the KGB gave him up to U.N.C.L.E. there is very little chance that he will ever regain his old form or even come close to it. Waverly probably only took him in, because he won’t survive being sent back like this. Out of nowhere Rudi’s voice rings in his ears. _Carthorse_. It is oddly fitting. A former operative, not useful anymore but too well informed, is prone to accidents or a bullet between the eyes. It’s not like anyone would miss him in Russia.

He’s not surprised, that it’s Solo who breaks the silence first. 

“Do you think the same?”

Illya opens his mouth, closes it again. Another minute goes by. 

“I don’t know.”

Gaby raises his hand to her face and brushes her lips over his knuckles. 

“I think they will regret letting you go.”

Solo hums in agreement. “One way or the other.” He carefully lays his hand on Illya’s upper thigh, well above the cast. The gesture is tender and nothing he’s used to coming from Solo. “You know, we’ll stay with you.”

Illya blinks a few times. His voice breaks little. “I know.” The truth is, he doesn’t know, because why would they? They’ll get a new agent to fill his spot and it’s going to happen soon. It’s not like Waverly can afford to bench them in hope that Illya might make it back. Four to six months, maybe longer, _if at all_. He clenches his jaw to fight the sudden burning in his eyes. 

Solo lifts his hand again. “I’m sorry. Are you in pain?”

“Yes.” It’s not even a lie. The painkillers left his system almost completely and his leg feels hot with it.

Gaby’s thumb stops moving back and forth over his knuckles, a small motion he only noticed now that it’s gone. 

“Are you ready to head back?”

He’s not, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He nods. His partners get up next to him. He gets ready to do the same, but stops only a moment later. He doesn’t know if he holds back a laughter or something else. 

Solo raises his eyebrow in question. “What is it?”

He looks up to his partners. A part of him wants them to leave him alone, another part is afraid that they do so.

“I can’t get up.”

Probably not even walk. 

He expects them to pity him, but all Solo and Gaby do is exchange a quick glance, then Solo shrugs and rolls up his sleeves. Illya’s eyes follow him, as he crouches next to him. Solo is more careful now than he was in the facility, when he slips his arms under his legs and behind his back. 

It’s as strange to get picked up as it was the first time. The shift of his weight as he leaves the ground, the feeling of getting lifted, of moving forward without moving himself. It’s even stranger to be carried like that, cradled against Solo’s front instead of thrown over his shoulders. He can feel Solo’s arms twitching as they take his weight and his chest rising and falling against his side. The smell of his cologne is more prominent and he can easily see his face without straining his neck. It’s almost… comfortable. 

Gaby grabs the pole Illya took with him and opens the door for them. 

Illya surprises himself when he hoops his arm around Solo’s neck as they step out.

The corridor is not empty anymore. There are a few nurses and a pair of young agents, probably flirting with them. They look in their direction, but an impressive glare from Gaby stops them from saying anything. Still Illya feels somewhat embarrassed as their gazes follow them down the corridor. He closes his eyes to block them out and lets his head fall on his partners shoulder. He hears Gaby open another door for them not much later and he gets lowered on the bed he escaped earlier. Gaby pulls the blanket up to his waist, while Solo calls for one of the nurses.

With a professional smile the needle in his arm is replaced, then they are alone again. 

As the pain lessens, the exhaustion catches up to Illya. He’s about to say so, when Gaby sits down on the bed and shrugs off her shoes. There is not much space left on the bed, but with something that looks a little like a twirl she flips on her side and stretches out next to him on top of the covers. Illya can’t help but stiffen up, as she moves closer so that she’s plastered against his side. 

“What are you doing?”

Gaby casually extends her arm to rest on his chest and shifts her leg up a bit. 

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Illya can feel himself blush as her fingers start to stroke over his chest. “No.” 

“Good.” 

He looks a little helpless over to Solo, who pulls out a chair on his other side. He expected some stupid remark or his usual smirk, but not him snatching his hand. There is not even a hint of humor in his eyes or his voice. 

“I told you. We’ll stay.”

He slightly squeezes Illya’s fingers for emphasis. His tongue feels suddenly thick and heavy in his mouth. He means to say thank you, but something doesn’t let him. He squeezes Solo’s hand back in turn, drapes his other arm around Gaby and hopes they understand him anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in the rating.

Solo sets the weights down to grab the bottle he brought with him. Illya watches him drink in large gulps and wonders, how long he will take to finish his routine. Solo was already working out, when Illya arrived at the head quarter’s gym. There are not many exercises the doctors allow Illya to do with the cast on. It’s been a week and he admittedly tires easily, so it’s no surprise, that Illya is done before Solo. Still, he’s been watching his partner at least half an hour from the bench pushed against the wall and it doesn’t look like he’s going to finish soon. 

He shortly wonders, why he still sits here. Solo doesn’t seem to mind the audience, but then again, the man never did. Maybe he should go. 

Solo sets down the water bottle and puts the free weights away to grab a barbell. He adds more weight to it and takes it over to a padded bench. Once he put it in the rag he lies down and starts bench-pressing. 

Illya frowns a little, as Solo continues to work out. It’s quite a lot of weight, more than Illya would have chosen, if he was allowed. Maybe the Cowboy grabbed the wrong ones. He waits for Solo to notice his mistake, but he doesn’t. It takes a full set for Illya to realize, that it really wasn’t a mistake. His partner is sweating, the muscles of his arms flexing under his skin, but he doesn’t look like he’s exhausting himself. He watches Solo completing another set and start the next. 

“You are strong.”

Solo glances in his direction with an amused huff, but doesn’t stop the motion. “Is that a compliment?” 

“No, is statement.”

His partner doesn’t bother with holding back his amusement. 

“Well, I’d better be, if I have to carry stupidly tall people on regular basis.”

“Twice is not regular.”

Solo hums, which translates to _I'm right no matter what you say_ , so Illya doesn’t try to argue against it. It’s not worth the effort. He counts silently Solo’s repetitions for a while. 

“You are stronger than me.”

“Probably.” This time Solo doesn’t glance at him. Instead he focuses on the barbell. He sounds still mostly at ease, but there is a certain edge to his voice, that Illya can’t place. “Does it matter?”

Illya takes a few seconds to think about it. 

“No.”

It’s a little surprise even to him, but it’s true. A few months back, it would have bothered him, but now it doesn’t. He smirks a little.

“It won’t help. You are still a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

Solo puts the barbell back onto the rag, then turns around to him with a matching smirk. “It has to be truly awful, being my partner.”

“You have no idea.”

They look at each other for a second longer, before Solo gets up and puts everything away. Illya reaches for his crutches next to him and gets up. He waits a minute for Solo to finish up, then they leave the gym for the living quarters. The way is not that long, but the crutches slow Illya down considerably. He’s already annoyed by them, but there’s nothing he can do. The cast won’t come off for at least two months, and after that he still won’t be allowed or able to walk on his leg. He tries not to think too hard about what will happen, if he stays useless, but it’s difficult sometimes. 

There are two bathrooms on their floor, but since Gaby claimed one for herself, Illya and Solo end up sharing the other one. Illya stops in front of his room.

“You can have the first shower.”

Solo raises his eyebrows slightly, which gives away, that he’s not as oblivious to the fact, that he takes ages in the bathroom, as he wants them to believe. 

Illya glances down at his cast. “I have to be careful. It must not get wet.”

Solo follows his gaze and hums. “You need help?”

Illya wants to say no as a reflex, but stops himself as he thinks of his last attempt, when he slipped on the tiles. “Maybe.” 

“Alright, I’ll be around, Peril.” With a wink Solo disappears in his room.

Another thing that Illya noticed has changed, as he goes to fetch a change of clothes and a fresh towel. Not so long ago, he would have taken offense at any notion that implies he can’t do anything. On the other hand, his partners never make him feel lesser or beg for it.

By the time he leaves his room, he can already hear water running, but it doesn’t sound like the shower. He pushes the door to the bathroom open to find Solo testing the temperature of the half-filled tub.

He glances up to Illya and pulls his hand out of the water. “I figured, it would be easier than trying to do this in the shower.”

Illya shrugs and sits down at the edge of the bathtub. He leans the crutches against the wall within his reach. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Solo sneak a bottle towards the tub. Before Illya gets the chance to say anything, Solo adds a good splash of the purple liquid to the water. He recognizes the scent immediately. Lavender. One of these days, he will just throttle Solo in his sleep.

Solo feigns innocence at Illya’s glare. “The scent is relaxing. I thought you could use it.”

Illya bites his lips, so he won’t retort anything, because Solo will most likely use it against him, and settles for ignoring him. That proved the best way to get him to shut up until now. He turns off the faucet and pulls his shirt off. With one hand gripping the rim of the tub he slowly bends down to remove his shoe. It’s not that easy with one leg immobile and spread in an odd angle, like everything seems to be. For the first time in his life he wishes, that he wouldn’t have such long limbs. It’s exhausting really.

“Let me do it.”

Illya looks up to tell Solo to stop annoying him, but when he meets his gaze, there is no mirth in it. Not even eagerness or helpfulness, but something else. His face his carefully blank, but his eyes are not. A few seconds pass, as if he leaves Illya the chance to tell him off, as if he expects Illya to do so. 

Illya doesn’t. He waits.

After a second Solo gets down on his knees in front of Illya and starts untying his laces. His hands are barely touching him, but at the same time move slowly, lingering. Illya watches silently as Solo slips the single shoe and his socks off. Carefully he sets them aside and looks up to Illya. His eyes seem very blue. Illya waits for him to get up, but he stays where he is. Slowly Solo reaches out to him, again, waiting for Illya to tell him to stop. His hands settle on Illya’s hips, his fingers curling around the band of his pants. They stay there, waiting for Illya to give them permission to go on. Illya doesn’t know why he lets him do it. He should punch him in the face or at least push his hands away. Instead he braces himself on the edge of the tub to make it easier for Solo. 

Solo slides Illya’s pants and underwear down, his gaze trailing his hands. Illya can’t help but twitch. There is something coiling in his stomach, but it’s not the familiar anger. Solo is careful as he draws the fabric over the cast. It doesn’t take that long for his legs to get freed, but it feels that Solo kneels there for hours. He doesn’t look up to Illya, but somehow he still feels as if he would and it makes Illya’s skin feel tight. The second his hands leave him, Illya lets himself slide backwards into the water, leaving the cast hanging out over the side of the tub.

Solo gets up without a comment. He folds Illya’s clothes neatly and gets an extra towel, which he drapes over the cast. After that Solo starts roaming around the room, picking out different bottles and soaps, one of which he sets down on the rim of the tub for Illya to reach. 

He doesn’t know what he expected Solo to do next, but it is not pulling his shirt over his chest. Illya refuses to let his gaze wander. 

“What are you doing?”

Solo steps out of his shoes and shrugs off his socks. “The same as you do. Getting clean.”

With a wink he turns around to turn on the shower. Before Illya can say anything, Solo drops his pants. “You don’t mind, do you, Peril?”

He doesn’t turn around again before he steps in the shower and closes it behind him. Illya is glad for it, because Solo didn’t see the heat rising in his cheeks, which he can’t even explain. Like he can’t explain why he doesn’t just turn his head away.

Illya sinks down further in the tub, so that the water reaches up almost to his nose. The scent of lavender is actually nice, not that Illya would ever say that aloud. 

The glass of the shower is milky, so he can’t see much. And even if he could, it wouldn’t matter. He knows what men look like, even before Solo flashed his backside. He’s one himself after all. And he knows, that his partner is attractive, far above average. It’s not news to him. There’s nothing about it, how Solo’s hands run over his body, loosening his muscles. Or the way his shoulders move when he pulls up both arms to wash his hair. Or how the curve of his ass looks when he bends down to reach his legs.

There is nothing about it, but Illya still averts his eyes, as Solo’s hands move to his crotch.

Illya grabs the bar of soap that Solo left him and gets to work. He notices now, that it’s lavender-scented as well. Illya wants to call Solo out on it, but it would give away, that he spent his time doing other things than washing himself until now. He’s just going to use it and get back at Solo with hiding the stuff he uses on his hair. At least that’s what he plans to do before his eyes fall to his lap.

He’s half-hard. 

Illya blinks once, before the implication hits him.

It doesn’t make sense. He’s likes women. He more than likes Gaby. This is wrong. He glances at Solo, who is still oblivious in the shower. Illya can’t stay here.

He braces his hands on the edge of the bath tub and hauls himself up. Water splashes all over the floor as he yanks himself out of it. He’s fast to get a towel draped over him, before Solo throws open the door of the shower. 

“What’s wrong Peril?”

Illya refuses to even glance in his direction. “Nothing.” He reaches for his crutches. Of course instead of grabbing them, he knocks them to the floor. With a curse leans to the side and reaches for them. 

The moment he shifts his weight forward his grip slips. He braces himself for the fall, but before he even sinks an inch, a strong arm reaches around his middle and steadies him. He gets pulled back, until he sits securely on the edge of the bathtub again. The arm stays where it is. Illya turns his head to find Solo hovering next to him, _close_ next to him, water dripping off him and completely naked. He frowns at Illya. “What is it?”

Illya glances down, intentionally just to avoid Solo’s gaze, but finds, that the towel he placed across his lap is not where it’s supposed to be anymore. 

He flushes red in embarrassment and horror, as Solo blinks down as well, before he can cover himself with his hand. 

Solo is so close, that Illya can hear him swallow. “Illya?”

There’s a hand on his cheek, turning his head to look up at Solo reluctantly. His eyes are still really blue and slightly widened, the brown spot more prominent. Before meeting Solo, Illya only ever heard of people with uneven eyes. He always thought it would look strange. Solo’s eyes don’t look strange. They are beautiful, unique. 

His eyes fall down to Solo’s lips. He is quick to blink away again, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Solo smiles a little, careful, as if the wrong twitch of a muscle would scare Illya away. Illya is not sure, that he could move away even if he tried. 

“It’s alright.”

It’s really not, but Illya can’t bring himself to object.

His breath catches as Solo leans down. The voice in his head that screams _wrong_ is drowned out by the rush of his own blood in his ears. 

The door to the bathroom flies open. Both of their heads whip around. Gaby freezes in the doorway. 

For a few seconds there is nothing but surprise on her face, before it turns blank. This is bad. 

“Gaby—”

“Shut up, Illya.” 

He does as he’s told. Illya would laugh at the irony, if his brain could register anything other than panic. Her eyes drill holes in Solo, as she slowly enters the bath room.

What did he think? He destroyed everything and for what? He glances at Solo. For what indeed. He doesn’t even know.

“And you”, she points at his partner, “step away from him. Now.”

Solo doesn’t dare to put up a fight and retreats.

Gaby eyes the puddles on the floor with aversion, but marches right through them, until she stands in front of Illya. She huffs out half a laugh as she glances over her shoulder at Solo. “I know you are brash and greedy, but this, my American friend, is impressive, even for you.”

Illya doesn’t understand what’s going on, when Gaby cups his face and angles it up. Instead of fury, there is now mere amusement written on her face.

“I’ve been waiting for this a really long time. Get in line, Napoleon.”

Without further warning she leans down. And there are no phone calls, no intruders and no alcohol-induced slumber. 

Her lips are even softer than Illya imagined. Warmth spreads through him, as he closes his eyes and just feels her against him. His brain needs a few seconds to catch up to his body, as she parts her lips. It’s natural to deepen the kiss, as if they did nothing else for years. He starts to feel dizzy and he’s not sure if it’s from the lack of oxygen or just Gaby. It’s intoxicating and he wants more, _all_ of her. 

He tries to chaise her lips as she pulls back. His eyes flutter open, his head still angled up to her. Gaby’s face is a little flushed and her eyes are sparkling. She smiles down at him in a way that makes him want to hold her close and never let go. Without thinking Illya raises a hand to push back a strand of hair and keeps his hand there. Carefully he guides her head back down and to his amazement she lets him. Gaby presses another soft kiss to his lips before she finally rises and turns her head to the side. 

He follows her gaze to Solo, who leans with his back against the closed door of the shower. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, his expression unreadable. At least he had the decency to throw a towel around his hips. Gaby absently runs a hand absently through Illya’s hair.

“So Napoleon? What are you going to do?”

Solo’s eyes wander between Gaby and Illya for a moment. The corners of his mouth twitch, before settling in his faked smile. “I guess, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Wrong answer.” 

Both Illya and Solo look at her a little dumbfounded, even if Solo hides it better. Gaby lets out a long-suffering sigh at them. “You are really ridiculous sometimes. Napoleon, get over here and continue where you let off.”

Illya would think she’s joking if it wasn’t for the sincerity in her gaze. He turns to Solo, who’s still looking at Gaby as if trying to figure out, where the catch is. After a long minute he glances at Illya. There is a certain glaze in his eyes, which makes unexpected heat pool in Illya’s stomach. His steps are slow, but confident as he walks over to them, the muscles of his shoulders and neck flexing as he moves. 

Gaby goes to lean against the wall to give them more space, but her eyes stay on them. 

Illya becomes aware of the fact, that he’s not used to look up to his partner. From this angle, Solo looks huge, the wide shoulders, the defined muscles, the obvious strength in his stride. It’s not hard to get all the women falling for him left and right, although they know that he won’t stay. It makes Illya shortly wonder, what this here is supposed to mean, but he dismisses the thought quickly, as Solo stops in front of him, standing between his slightly opened legs. 

Solo’s hand comes to rest on Illya’s cheek as he slowly leans in. 

The first contact is nothing more than a brush of skin against skin, before he draws back again. Solo looks into his eyes, his desire barely concealed, but he stays where he is, hovering just a few inches apart. Illya understands that Solo’s leaving him an out, but he doesn’t feel as if he needs one. He leans forward to close the gap between them. 

Solo’s reaction is immediate. His hands find Illya’s shoulders and hold him tight, as he meets Illya halfway. Kissing Solo is an entirely different sensation than kissing Gaby. The smell, the taste, the slight stubble rubbing against him are constant reminders of Solo’s masculinity and Illya can’t deny to like it. He’s just as confident as Gaby, but more demanding, constantly pressing in and taking control. His tongue slides easily in Illya’s mouth and makes him breathless. A small moan escapes him. Surprised by the edge in his own voice, Illya draws back. 

He feels Gaby’s gaze on them. Heat rises to his cheeks as he blinks in her direction. She didn’t move away from her spot against the wall, watching them. Her eyes travel down Illya’s body before paying the same attention to Solo. She smiles in a way Illya’s never seen before, when her eyes finally find Illya’s. “Go on, why don’t you.” Unable to hold her gaze longer than a second, he turns his head away. 

The sudden brush of Solo’s mouth over his neck makes him gasp in surprise. His partner chuckles against his skin, but doesn’t draw back. His mouth travels further down, to his chest and leaves flushed skin and goosebumps in its wake. Illya has to hold on to the edge of the bathtub to stay upright. He lets out a hiss, as Solo bites down on his collarbone. A soft kiss on top of it soothes the sting. Fingertips run down his sides. Illya’s eyes fall shut again as he shudders from the sensation. Solo’s hands travel further down to the sides to his hips and his thighs. It’s not until his leg gets gently pushed aside, that Illya blinks his eyes open again. 

Solo sinks down to his knees in the space between his legs without stopping his mouth working down Illya’s body. 

Illya can’t do anything but watch him go lower and lower, his tongue licking one spot, his teeth sinking into another. He fights hard to stay still, even more so, when Solo stops and sits back on his heels. Solo’s eyes find his again, striking blue framed with dark lashes. His hands come to rest on Illya’s upper thighs, spreading him as wide as the cast on his leg allows. 

Illya knows he’s hard, obviously and painful by now, especially as Solo leans down. He can feel Solo’s breath hot on his dick, torturously close, but not going further. For what feels like an eternity Solo stays like that, looking up to Illya through his lashes, his lips barely an inch away from Illya’s cock.

It only would have taken a few seconds longer for Illya to start begging him to lean in, to back away, to do just _anything_ , when Solo gives him a quick lick. A spark of pleasure shoots up Illya’s spine and makes him gasp. Solo waits just long enough to make the sensation fade, before doing it again. 

Illya has to keep himself from thrusting forward, as Solo’s lips finally close around the tip of his cock. Solo’s tongue rubs against him, circling around him, toying with the slit. Illya can hear himself panting, his breath heavy and filled with need.

He can’t help but groan, as Solo draws him in deeper. 

“Beautiful.”

Gaby’s voice makes his head snap up. He almost forgot, that she’s still there. She’s still leaning against that wall, watching them shamelessly. The feeling of her eyes on them makes Illya shudder. 

“Wha-?” His words are cut off as Solo hollows his cheeks and starts to suck in earnest. No longer teasing his head bobs up and down on Illya’s cock, his lips tight around him, his mouth warm and wet. Illya’s knuckles crack under the force where he grabs the edge of the tub.

Slowly Gaby walks over to them. Her hand runs over Solo’s back, before she sits down next to Illya. She presses a kiss to his neck, before letting her hand roam over Illya’s upper body. The kiss turns into biting and sucking until his flesh is hot and tender. It’s going to be a mark tomorrow, probably visible even with a turtleneck. He wants to protest, but Solo swallows around him and makes it impossible for Illya to concentrate enough to form words.

Gaby’s hand runs further down his chest, following the trail Solo left earlier, until she reaches down. Her fingers sink in Solo’s hair, stroking first, then tightening around the strands until he stops moving. Solo moans around Illya’s cock, the vibrations traveling through his whole body. 

Illya barely has the time to catch his breath, before Gaby pulls at Solo’s hair. With a stifled gasp he follows the motion only to be shoved down on Illya’s cock again. Gaby’s grasp stays firm, controlling Solo’s movements, making him take Illya further with every pull. Solo doesn’t even try to resist. His fingers twitch once, then his eyes flutter shut. Illya can feel him loosen the muscles of his jaw as he lets Gaby direct him. He hits the back of Solo’s throat once, twice, making him choke, then he gets swallowed down. Illya’s breath leaves him with a curse. 

Gaby doesn’t let up, pulling Solo by his hair on and off Illya’s cock. She turns her head and nuzzles along Illya’s neck. The patch of skin she worried earlier stings.

“How beautifully he takes it, Illya. Look at him.”

She tightens her grip, holding Solo in place with Illya buried in his throat as deep as he would go.

Illya’s whole body rocks forward at the sensation of Solo’s throat constricting around him. His legs start to tremble under Solo’s palms. Only now Illya realizes how close he is. He gasps out a warning, his words a jumble of Russian and English and his partners’ names. He can see Gaby’s hand loosen its grip, giving Solo the opportunity to move on his own volition. 

Solo’s eyes flash blue as he draws back a little only to swallow Illya back down in a rush, taking all of him.

Illya comes with a shout. Solo’s mouth works him through every single wave of pleasure, spilling nothing. He sees, _feels_ Solo swallow repeatedly, eating up everything Illya has to give. The sight alone sets off another shock shooting through his body. 

When Solo finally pulls away, he looks as wrecked as Illya feels. Solo is breathing hard, his lips reddened and swollen, his hair a mess. Illya looks down stupefied to his partner, reaching out to him with a slightly trembling hand. Solo’s eyes flutter shut as Illya gently takes his face in his hand and traces his lower lip with his thumb. Illya’s gaze wander down, across the heaving chest down to the towel, which somehow is still in place. It does little to hide Solo’s own erection. Illya swallows. He should return the favor, surprisingly _wants_ to even, but he’s not exactly sure how. 

Gaby rises from her spot next to Illya and steps around them. She takes a small bottle of oil from one of the shelves and pours a little in her palm. Other than Illya, Solo doesn’t seem track her moving behind him. The surprised gasp proves it, as Gaby kneels down behind Solo and reaches around him. One of her arms sneak around his chest, pressing his back against her, while the other one almost casually disappears under the towel. 

Solo throws his head back, resting it on Gaby’s shoulder. With a low chuckle she tilts her head a little to whisper in Solo’s ear. Illya doesn’t catch what she’s saying, but Solo’s answer is an almost desperate moan. Her hand on his chest starts so circle his nipples, which harden visibly under her touch, before moving down. She tucks loose the towel around Solo’s hips. 

Illya’s throat goes dry as it reveals Gaby’s hand wrapped around Solo’s cock, already stroking him lazily up and down. Solo arches into her touch as she twists her wrist. He’s completely on display, writhing and gasping with every flick of her fingers. 

His gaze meets Illya’s. His eyes are hooded, his pupils blown wide. Illya finds himself unable to look away, as effectively pinned as he was in that sparring match a few weeks ago.

They stay like that, staring at each other, until Gaby starts to move faster. Solo turns his head and buries his face in Gaby’s neck, muffling his moans. Her free hand runs circles over his skin and makes him shiver, before it wanders up into his hair again. She angles his head up and presses her lips on his. 

Solo comes with a full-body shudder. Her grasp on him is enough to let him stay upright, as he shakes apart. He draws his head back a little, breaking the kiss but pressing their foreheads together. He pants into Gaby’s mouth as she strokes him through the aftershocks. His eyes are firmly shut, his face contorted in exertion and bliss. Gaby was right. He is beautiful.

Gaby presses another small kiss on Solo’s lips, as he slowly catches his breath. His partner opens his eyes at that and smiles a little. “Do you want me to - ?” With a similar smile Gaby shakes her head and kisses him again, lingering, but tender. 

The moment is lost as Gaby lets go of Solo and gets up. Without her touch, Solo sobers up quickly. It’s odd to see him reconstruct a fake of his usual nonchalance, tucking away every little emotion he showed just a few seconds ago. There’s no trace left by the time he grabs the clothes he brought with him before and dons a pair of sweatpants. Illya feels his own expression harden in return, a pang of hurt hitting him unexpectedly. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Of course this was nothing for Solo. Convenient, a special notch in his bedpost at most.

Gaby hands Illya another towel to dry himself of. Unexpected she leans a little closer and sniffs at his neck. With a little chuckle she draws back. “I didn’t imagine it. Lavender suits you.”

Illya’s eyes stay on Solo across the room. “I don’t think so.” The second he gets the chance, he will wash the scent off his skin, even if it takes hours. 

The smile Solo gives them is so faked, that Illya wants to wipe it off his face with his fists. 

“I guess you two don’t need me here anymore.”

Illya snorts in disdain. “Who said you were needed in the first place?”

Solo opens his mouth to retort something, but nothing comes out. His mask cracks for a second. Illya wants to feel satisfied, but he doesn’t.

“You’re truly the greatest idiots I’ve ever seen.”

Both of them turn to Gaby to find her obviously pissed. “Both of you go and get dressed in one of our rooms, while I take I shower. After that we’ll sit down like adults and talk about this. Understood?”

Her tone leaves no room to argue. Illya shares a quick glance with Solo, but he only looks defeated. In utter silence he hands Illya his crutches and the pile of his clothes, before they both leave the bathroom. Without a further word Solo follows him into his room. Illya doesn’t look at him, while his partner puts on the rest of his clothes. It doesn’t seem right anymore. Instead Illya makes himself busy and goes to sit on the bed, leaving his crutches next to him. Getting pants over his cast is still trying, but if Solo offered help now, Illya would punch him without a second thought. Of course Solo is long finished by the time Illya is, but he didn’t move from his spot in the middle of the room. 

Illya hears faintly the sound of water rushing through the pipes, other than that it’s silent. Minutes pass by with both of them waiting and not looking at each other, Solo facing the wall, Illya looking down to his folded hands. An audible intake of breath makes Illya raise his head slightly.

“I didn’t plan this.”

The tone of Solo’s voice gives away, that he doesn’t only mean what happened just now. He doesn’t sound indifferent anymore, only exhausted. Illya understands him all too well. 

“I did not either.”

He didn’t plan to get attached or to care when he got assigned to work with an obnoxious American spy and an unwilling German car-mechanic. 

Or to fall in love with them. 

The thought doesn’t even feel that strange. Illya guesses it’s because there was never the chance of falling in love being simple. Not with the life that they lead, not even if Gaby was the only one involved. 

Solo looks over the shoulder to the door, the thought of leaving written on his face. Illya won’t stop him, if he really wants to. Still he will try.

“I’m sorry.”

Because Solo is needed. By both of them. 

After a few seconds Solo does this little head-shaking, of which Illya is half convinced Solo doesn’t even notice doing it. He sticks his hands in the pockets of the sweatpants and slowly walks over to the bed.

He sits down next to Illya, their knees almost brushing together. They are not touching, but he sits close enough to feel the body heat of his partner. 

“It won’t work.”

“We’ll make it work.”


End file.
